


the garden of eden was built for you and me

by culo



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe, Antisemitism, Eating Disorders, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Misogyny, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Transphobia, it's like. not a lot but there is some, platonic murder buddies are a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7560229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culo/pseuds/culo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU He kisses her in the crowded hall to celebrate their sins, not because he loves her. She kisses back to reaffirm the deed. </p><p>or: heather chandler is surprisingly willing to play bonnie and clyde. — chanduke, platonic trenchcoatscrunchie</p>
            </blockquote>





	the garden of eden was built for you and me

High school is boring. Everyone is so predictable, they're all assholes; Heather Chandler is an asshole, her friends are assholes, all the jocks are assholes, anyone worthwhile is a fucking asshole. College doesn't seem any better, she thinks. The boys are even worse, always grabbing and pushing and wanting more. None of them are even semi decent. Maybe nobody in all of Ohio is decent. Fuck, maybe nobody in the world is decent.

 

(That doesn't stop Heather from eyeing up her best friend, Heather McNamara, in the latter's living room at a sleepover.)

 

Junior year starts in a week, she thinks this will be even more boring than sophomore year. Heather Duke, her other best friend, insists that it'll be very because they're _juniors now_ like that's supposed to mean anything. All being a junior means to Heather is working even harder to keep her social status at Westerburg. She's already feared, she just needs to be crowned and the only way to get that crown is through insults and grinding her heels into everyone else and blowing college boys at sleazy parties.

 

Still, she hosts the Heathers' annual sleepover so they can sort out their agenda for the year with a pearly smile and expensive liquor. They laugh more than they should, ticking off names of people who may or may not be threats and deciding how to punish those who are and sharing stories from the summer. It's the only bit of fun, Heather thinks, that they'll have until winter break. She might as well enjoy it.

 

If anything, enjoying the sleepover makes the next couple of weeks even more boring.

 

Nothing changes really. They vetoed taking in Veronica Sawyer, some nobody who's only redeeming qualities seem to be good bone structure and forgery, so they stay just the Heathers, completely untouchable. They pull a few mean tricks on lowlifes like Martha Dumptruck and Heather Duke has to whine to make them not harass any of the yearbook. They go to a party or two, only high school ones with boys like Kurt Kelly. Heather goes on a date with some frat boy, Heather McNamara drills the cheerleaders until someone cries, Heather Duke decides on a nice theme for the yearbook. It's the same as high school will probably always be.

 

* * *

 

About a month into junior year, some angry looking boy in a trenchcoat transfers to Westerburg. Heather scoffs that he looks like he'll shoot up the school and put all these fucking losers out of their misery. Heather and Heather laugh, almost the same as they do when she says something particularly mean to Betty Finn. She loves when they laugh like that; it's like somehow that validates everything they do. Not that she'd ever tell either of them that, she's sure it would make Heather Duke light up like fucking Christmas lights but ...

 

Whatever.

 

Heather doesn't think twice about trenchcoat boy until lunch. She walks around the cafeteria to poll people actually worthy of her time which is, of course, nothing new. When she gets to the jock table, they're a little handsy.

 

She thinks maybe they haven't been laid in a month. Serves them right, she almost scoffs.

 

"If you two are done being assholes, I've got a good one for the lunchtime poll," she holds her clipboard a little higher up. A little tighter to her chest so they can't touch there.

 

Kurt Kelly all but whines, his hand going to her hip. "C'mon, Heather, that crap again? Ram 'n' I haven't gotten any action with Heather or Heather in like. Two weeks. Can't we like go to the bathroom or something?"

 

It's kind of disgusting. Ram Sweeney, Kurt's best friend or what the fuck ever, is supposed to be dating Heather McNamara. Whatever. She supposes it won't be that bad if she loosens up long enough to give them both handjobs. They've never been very nice about being left with blue balls, after all.

 

And then it happens. Trenchcoat boy walks up, his shoulders hunched like he's a fucking drug dealer or something.

 

Heather can feel her eyes rolling. What does this no life scum even want?

 

"Uh, gents, couldn't help but overhear and it seems to me that Heather here isn't interested. Maybe back off and, uh, keep it in your pants?"

 

She wants to fucking hit him. Who does this asshole think he is? Telling two _seniors_ to fuck off like that? She's not some helpless little damsel in distress, even if she really doesn't feel like fucking either of them.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, Bo Didley, didn't know the homo convention was in town," Kurt snorts, his hand tightening on Heather's hip.

 

Ram laughs stupidly at that. "Last time I checked, Heather's always been interested in being in between my buddy Kurt 'n' me in a threesome," he grins.

 

Heather almost cringes at how the rest of their friends snicker at that. She's always hated being in the center of a Kurt-Ram sandwich. The very thought makes her feel kind of like she might pull a Heather Duke and hurl.

 

The other boy (Heather can't remember what Heather McNamara said his name was) raises an eyebrow at that. "Does she now?" he asks, his voice almost ... Tired.

 

"Duh."

 

"And, uh, you've asked her to verify that, right?"

 

Both jocks guffaw at that. "Don't have to," one (Heather's head is thinking too fast for her to know which) replies.

 

And then ... One shot ... Two shots ... People scream ... Kurt and Ram piss themselves ... What the actual fuck?

 

* * *

 

It's all Heather Duke can talk about on their drive to Heather's estate. The jeep stalls at a stop sign and she's too busy dying laughing about Kurt and Ram's faces to curse. Heather McNamara is just as breathless, her head falling back.

 

"Shut _up,_ Heather!" she smacks Heather Duke lightly, her stomach aching from laughter, "that fucking psycho pulled a gun on them, they should lock his ass up."

 

The cheerleader pulls herself up, so she can actually look at the other girls. "And he did it all for _you,_ Heather," she giggles.

 

"Talk about having an admirer," Heather Duke fucking snorts. If it wasn't for all the puking up lunches and whining, Heather would tell her it was the most unattractive thing she's ever done. Instead she tells Heather to _shut up_ again and crosses her arms. The thought of that little freak having a crush on her makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

 

"Oh, relax, Heather. He only shot blanks," McNamara's smile doesn't fade.

 

Heather shakes her head. She can't be the only _sane_ one here.

 

* * *

 

 There's a party tonight. Not just any party, a Remington party. Heather McNamara is busy, going on a movie date with Ram to make him feel better about the cafeteria, so Heather takes Heather Duke. They don't take the jeep ("I don't feel like stalling at every light"  "sorry Heather"). It's not a quiet car ride but it's not the same breathless laughter as the ride from school. Heather thinks maybe she said shut up one too many times but all she does is tell Duke she can turn the radio on if she wants.

 

* * *

 

They stop at some little convenience store, the one Heather never bothers to remember if you ask but she always buys her Corn Nuts at. She tells Duke that if she's going to puke, she should do it now instead of later. That's bitchy but so is she.

 

"BQ, BQ, BQ ..." she mutters, searching. Why the fuck is there so much of the plain shit?

 

"Looking for this?" oh fuck. Jesse James is holding a bag of BQ Corn Nuts up. "Think I, uh, might've grabbed the last one. I've always preferred slushies."

 

Heather wants to just snatch it from him and leave, but Duke is still in the bathroom. Maybe she should've gone to this party alone. (Or maybe it'd be worse if he didn't know someone came with her.)

 

"Here," he hands it to her, "y'know. I didn't get any kind of a thanks for earlier."

 

She almost snarls at that. "I didn't ask for your help."

 

He laughs. The very sound makes her feel like nothing more than a spoiled little girl, angry that her daddy didn't buy her a pony. "I was just doing the ... Neighborly thing. It's pretty clear you weren't into it."

 

"And that's your business why?"

 

"It was just a little favor."

 

There's something off-putting about the way he says that. Heather can't tell if he means she owes him a favor now or not. It makes her tense. Fuck, everything about him makes her tense. She doesn't move, still practically choking the bag of Corn Nuts at her side. She doesn't think she's ever been so conscience of the length of her dress or the rate of her heart. The strangest part of that is that his eyes haven't even dipped down past her once.

 

"The name's J.D., by the way. Don't think your, uh, boyfriend or whatever got that right earlier," he notes, scratching the back of his head.

 

Heather pushes past him to the cashier, not willing to wait longer for Heather Duke inside. Instead she honks the horn until the mousy looking redhead rushes out, J.D. strolling behind her. Something about the way he stares straight at her as he gets on his bike makes Heather stop holding down the horn.

 

* * *

 

She loses Heather Duke after David, this college boy she's been kind of seeing, drags her off to some little room to make out in. His mouth is hot and almost slobbery on hers, like her dog when she lets it lick her hand. God, is she really comparing him to her dog now? That's probably not healthy. None of this is healthy.

 

Especially not how she can't stop wondering where in hell Heather Duke went. With that other boy? To hide out in the bathroom and maybe cry or puke or read? The girl is a sponge, there's no way she would've run off with a college boy. She's always turning bright red and covering her ears when Heather lets her and McNamara pry details of high school handjobs and sex with frat boys.

 

David pushes her head down and she doesn't even flinch this time.

 

It doesn't mean she wants to.

 

* * *

 

The blonde slips out to get some air after. Or at least that's what she tells David when he asks, zipping up his pants. He laughs and tells her to wash her mouth out first.

 

Maybe she should make like Heather Duke and puke. She did swallow what she could, after all. There's a trashcan right there ...

 

"So this is what you do for fun, huh?"

 

"Are you stalking me?" she spits out, suddenly more aware of everything about herself. Her need for validation, for approval wonders if he thinks her dress is too short, if he knows what she did, if he knows she thought about Heather fucking Duke the whole time. If he does she thinks she might just kill him.

 

J.D. laughs. It makes her feel pathetic, like she's just whining and that actually, he just came here because he could and doesn't give two damns about Heather Chandler. "Stalking's not really my style. I just thought maybe yer, uh, more of a damsel in distress than you let on. It appears I was right."

 

"What the fuck do you even want, Clyde?" she snaps.

 

"Nothing, I'm just feeling a little superior since I shut those two assholes up. Thought maybe I should, uh, do the Heather Chandlers of the world a favor and get rid of the boys who like to bully them into sex," he replies coolly. Her heart all but stops. "If you're wondering, I mean whatever you want by 'get rid of.'"

 

Is he offering ...

 

"... He's still inside," she whispers, "David, he's—"

 

"I know. C'mon, princess," J.D. takes her hand and guides her back inside. She isn't sure if princess is an insult or not.

 

* * *

 

 

David doesn't call Heather again.

 

Heather Duke doesn't shut up about how that could've happened at a fucking party.

 

* * *

 

J.D. laughs about how suiting he thinks making David choke on a beer bottle was during croquet. It doesn't make Heather's insides squirm too much, she just shoves him and tells him to shut up.

 

"Who's gonna hear? Your parents are out," he smirks, "we could plan another if you wanted."

 

She doesn't know if she hates any of the boys she's been with enough to watch J.D. do that again. That doesn't stop her from listening to him spout off ways to kill them and make it look like an accident.

 

"We could make it look like a suicide," she suggests.

 

He seems to like that idea. Maybe that should worry her.

 

* * *

 

McNamara asks her if she's dating J.D. on the phone the next night.  Heather laughs harder than they did when Kurt and Ram pissed themselves. "Don't be such a pillowcase, Heather, of course I am."

 

It's not true. She hasn't actually asked J.D. what they are (friends, she hopes; she's had enough boyfriends for a lifetime).

 

"I thought you said he was a freak?" Heather McNamara sounds confused, like her eyebrows are doing that thing where they scrunch up because she doesn't get the joke you told. Maybe Heather should toy with that. She's always liked keeping things just out of everyone else's reach.

 

She scoffs at that.

 

"... So, he's cool?"

 

Heather scoffs again. "He's hot." She changes the subject quickly, asking what McNamara thinks her next lunchtime poll should be about.

 

* * *

 

Heather Duke curls up next to her at a sleepover after McNamara passes out, her legs tucked into her chest. She doesn't ask if they're going to David's funeral on Sunday. The answer is no and anyway, it's not like she knew him.

 

"Do you wanna go on a double date with me?"

 

Double date. Oh. "... With who?"

 

"Some guys from the basketball team. They're better than Kurt and Ram," the redhead mumbles, "or is J.D. not cool with you being my backup?"

 

"It's fine. I'll go."

 

She's not sure what compels her to hold Duke's hand after that so she doesn't let the other girl ask.

 

* * *

 

The basketball players  _are_ better than Kurt and Ram, Heather supposes. At the very least, they don't take her cow tipping. Not that a drive in movie is any better. She's never been a fan of fucking in cars, especially not when the boy is basically slobbering over her neck and collar bones.

 

Is Heather Duke doing any better with hers? She hopes so, God it would suck if they both had fucking golden retrievers as dates.

 

She can feel her skirt being hiked up, her legs scraped by the roughness of his hands and nails. Maybe if she just smiles and lies there it'll be alright. Heather hopes it'll be alright.

 

Really, she hopes J.D. will have stalked her here to save her. She's so sick of boys leaving bruises on her hips and calling her theirs. Sometimes Heather just thinks she's sick of boys altogether. That wouldn't make her a dyke, she thinks. It just makes her tired of the same old same old.

 

(Right?)

 

J.D. doesn't save her. She doesn't save Heather Duke. What the fuck ever, really. It's just sex. Even if she doesn't say yes.

 

* * *

 

"You should've told me."

 

"It was  _fine,_ I wanted it."

 

"Bullshit. We'll take care of him tonight."

 

"... Get Heather's too."

 

* * *

 

Click. Bang. Bang.

 

* * *

 

As far as anyone in Westerburg knows, the basketball captain and his best friend killed each other in a drunken mess. They get half a day off of school to mourn. Heather scoffs to tell her friends that only a dumbass would mourn that. "The idiots deserved it, it was their own fault." Daddy always taught her that the weak links break.

 

McNamara laughs half heartedly and Duke doesn't even crack a smile.

 

Losers.

 

* * *

 

 J.D. sneaks in through the backdoor to visit her that night. He's got slushies and Corn Nuts. "To celebrate," he says. She tells him he's a psycho and he opens her Corn Nuts for her. "That's, uh, three in total," he grins after she's taken the Corn Nuts.

 

Three in total. She's helped him kill three fucking people. What the fuck? Her eyes kind of burn and then her cheeks are wet, like she's crying. Oh, fuck. Is she crying? It's been awhile ... Maybe a few months since she's cried. Last time it was over the way she felt fucking nothing when her then boyfriend (will they kill him too?) fucked her. Now she's crying about how she's a fucking serial killer. She's a fucking serial killer.

 

She hasn't actually killed anyone. It's all J.D.

 

She hasn't exactly stopped him either. Quite the opposite, really. What the fuck? This wasn't how she imagined her junior year going.

 

"Hey, it's okay ... They all deserved to die. They made you cry, 'n' they were all rapist fucks," he mutters, setting the slushie down to cup her face, "you 'n' me are gonna fix this world. We're gonna take all the Kurt and Rams out of it, then we'll build it all up again. You 'n' me, Heather, we're God."

 

And what if she doesn't want to be God?

 

"They got what was comin' to them. You know that." He kisses the top of her head and she isn't sure she wants that crown anymore.

 

Christ on a fucking stick, she never imagined her throne would be built from corpses.

 

"Heather ... Don't back out on me now. We're not done yet," he says, his voice a little lower and his grip on her a little tighter. "We haven't built the new world yet, the one you can love who you love in."

 

She kisses him. It's the first kiss she's had in awhile that wasn't slobbery and gross. She still doesn't feel anything. "I'm not a dyke, J.D.," her voice comes out closer to a growl than she intends. If anything, it makes her even less believable.

 

J.D. doesn't call her bluff but he doesn't fuck her either.

 

* * *

 

The funeral sucks. J.D. makes a joke about how they deserve a better turn up, considering how nicely he staged it. She almost laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

She's doing her lunchtime poll with Heather Duke trailing behind her like a sad puppy when Kurt Kelly whines to her. "You're no fun now that you're like, Bo Didley's property or whatever. 'N' double dates aren't any fun anymore either, like, Heather Duke's gag reflex _sucks,_ " he says, not caring that Heather Duke is right fucking there.

 

Heather smiles tightly and doesn't humor him today. "That's not the point, Kurt, just answer the question for the poll," she rolls her eyes.

 

When they're back at their table, Duke asks her why she lets Kurt pull that shit. "He called you J.D.'s property, that's bull and we all know it."

 

"It's whatever, Heather. Kurt can talk all the shit he wants but we all know who's really in charge here." She's not sure if she's ever believed she has any power over boys, especially boys like Kurt Kelly, but she says it anyway. If Heather and Heather buy it, she's sure everyone else will too.

 

The redhead sighs softly, "if you say so."

 

She wonders when Duke stopped believing she's almighty. More importantly, she wonders why that makes her feel so worthless.

 

* * *

 

McNamara asks her quietly, between croquet matches, if she can't get J.D. to let her go on a double date with Kurt and Ram. She only says yes to convince herself she _isn't_ J.D.'s property.

 

* * *

 

"Yeah, you like that, huh, slut?"

 

Maybe she is just something to be owned.

 

* * *

 

J.D. picks her up after the deed is done. He looks like he might kill Kurt, who's passed out in the field, if she doesn't drag him off. She doesn't have time to waste worrying about Heather McNamara. (That doesn't kill the sinking feeling in her stomach.)

 

"How many times am I gonna have to clean you up because some asshole raped you?"

 

She isn't sure if the question is hostile or not. Still, she doesn't bother answering, feels like she might puke if she tries.

 

"Fuck, Heather, you've gotta ... Gotta tell me ... I'll show up 'n' take care of them before they can next time, make it look like a suicide—like you suggested," J.D. practically begs her. He's on his knees, begging her. His kitchen counter might as well be a throne.

 

Heather Chandler has power over a boy. A boy who would kill anyone she asked. To think Heather Duke doesn't believe she's almighty anymore.

 

"Worship me."

 

"You 'n' me, we're gods. We get to build a new world," he grins, "you say shoot, I say when."

 

"What should we write in their note?"

 

* * *

 

Repressed gay lovers. She thinks that's kind of a shitty joke, all things considered, but they couldn't think of anything that would humiliate Kurt and Ram more. Besides, it doesn't matter if she's ... Nobody needs to fucking know. All that matters is that she reminds Kurt who's really ruling Westerburg.

 

Not him, not him ever again.

 

She forged the note herself. She's seen Ram's fucking chicken scratch enough times to know how to do it. 'Dear world,' it starts, 'Kurt and I killed ourselves in a suicide pact after realizing we'll never get to be together. We were forced to live a lie as sexist jocks instead of as our true selves. This way, we get to die as ourselves, for our gay forbidden love.'

 

J.D. laughed when he read it. She showed him her hard work so they can get away with committing double homicide and he laughed like she'd told him something petty about fucking Courtney. That fucks her head up a little, to think he can just laugh about it. It's not like she didn't snicker while forging it the night before, but to see someone else laugh ...

 

Whatever.

 

Kurt and Ram deserve to die. For everything they've done to her and her friends and God knows how many freshmen.

 

She's not a great person but at least she'd never do  _that._ Even if she would commit murder. Whatever. They can call it bad karma and be done with this bullshit in two gunshots.

 

* * *

 

They drive to that convenience store and leave the bodies in the woods with what J.D. calls "homosexual artifacts" to give the note some backbone. She pukes up her Corn Nuts afterwards. He's kind enough to hold her hair back. Heather realizes then that J.D.'s hands are more powerful than that stupid red scrunchie she wears will ever be. She can't tell why that took her so long to get. Not that it matters.

 

* * *

 

Heather McNamara runs straight to the bathroom when some girl runs up to them to inform that school is cut today because Ram and Kurt killed themselves in some repressed homosexual suicide pact.

 

"It's nice to not be the one who needs to puke, for once," Duke says quietly. "Not that I blame her. It's a little shocking to find out your boyfriend is gay and dead, I guess."

 

The blonde laughs at that. She decides maybe they all need to rethink their moral compasses if jokes about murders she committed are funny.

 

"So, I take it you heard about Kurt 'n' Ram. Explains a lot, huh?" J.D., of course it's J.D.

 

Duke smiles and Heather laughs. He kisses her in the crowded hall to celebrate their sins, not because he loves her. She kisses back to reaffirm the deed. She can't help but think about Heather Duke, right fucking next to them, the whole time.

 

J.D. probably knows that though, so it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters these days.

 

* * *

 

Heather Duke goes off with Heather McNamara somewhere, to comfort her probably. Heather rides on the back of J.D.'s motorcycle and he takes her to his house.

 

"Hey, dad, didn't hear you come in. School get cancelled?" a man that, if she had to guess, must be old enough to be either of their fathers asks.

 

"Yep, son," J.D. shoots back, coolly and calmly like there's nothing strange about this.

 

The man raises an eyebrow at Heather. "Well, guess I'll have to introduce you to my girlfriend then." What the actual fuck is wrong with these people?

 

"This, pops, is Heather. We'll be in my room if you need me," and with that, J.D. grabs her by the hand and guides her away from the man.

 

She waits until they're out of earshot to ask him what the fuck that was. He barely explains it, just tells her some bullshit about "role reversal" and how his relationship with his dad has been fucked since his mom died.

 

Killed herself.

 

Was killed.

 

He's not sure.

 

Heather doesn't want to know anymore, really. As a rule, they don't talk about their parents. She's almost certain J.D. would have murdered her father by now if they did. Maybe her mom too, for letting that bullshit happen to her.

 

"Can we, like, be normal today? No celebrating what happened in the woods ... Maybe we just watch a movie ..."

 

She's so tired.

 

"'Course."

 

He's wide awake.

 

* * *

 

J.D.'s dad walks in on them curled up together, pretending to be a couple for her sake. "Well, at least I know you won't need condoms," he says roughly, putting a bag of Chinese takeout on the bedside table. He leaves without saying anything else.

 

"What was that supposed to mean?" she asks, shooting up, "are you ..."

 

He shows her bindings on his chest and, for a moment, she considers calling him what Kurt and Ram would've—tranny. Then she remembers all the other things Kurt and Ram did, and how that worked out for them. (And maybe she remembers that J.D. has never once called her a dyke.)

 

She doesn't acknowledge it again and maybe that's comforting for him.

 

* * *

 

Heather Duke looks something like a goddess in her car on their way to the synagogue the week after the funeral.

 

That's why she and J.D. are burning the world down, isn't it? Not just to stop boys from pulling down panties without waiting for a yes, to stop people from calling Heather Duke a kike under their breath when she doesn't straighten her hair. They wouldn't be rebuilding the world if it wasn't for the better.

 

She thinks. She hopes. She isn't sure, actually.

 

* * *

 

She bumps into that Veronica Sawyer girl at school. It makes her wonder if she'd have blood on her hands had they just taken her in. Maybe J.D. would've decided she was the kind of evil the world needed to be saved from. That thought makes her feel kind of sick.

 

* * *

 

 Heather McNamara asks her why she's dating J.D. during a movie.

 

"What kind of question is that?" she scoffs, crossing her arms. Really she just can't figure out how to tell anyone she isn't dating him. She's a ... She doesn't like boys. And no matter what some stupid fucking doctor said when he was born, J.D. isn't a girl. What do doctors know anyway?

 

McNamara doesn't ask again. Her hand still lingers on Heather's forearm, like she's trying to communicate something.

 

God, like Heather has time to play charades.

 

"... It's okay if you're ..."

 

"If I'm what?" she snaps, eyes narrowing.

 

The taller blonde pulls her hand away, curling up into herself. "Forget it. It's stupid." It's Heather's turn not to ask again. She doesn't think she really wants to hear some "it's okay to be gay" PSA from a girl who thinks her boyfriend killed himself over that. "Just ... Don't do anything dumb. Like Ram did."

 

She fucking knew it.

 

"Just like Ram, Heather, I don't eat carpet."

 

* * *

 

J.D. goes bowling with her like they aren't serial killers and it makes her feel even sicker than acknowledging that they are.

 

* * *

 

"Can we stop?" she sighs, "I'm tired."

 

He doesn't reply at first. She hopes to God he won't hit her. "Y'know, I thought maybe you were different, that you, uh, wanted to make the world better. For real."

 

She thinks he just told her she's not the first girl he's murdered with.

 

* * *

 

They go two weeks without talking. When Heather McNamara asks, she says they broke up. Heather Duke smiles at that and doesn't puke up her lunch before class. It's the first time that's happened since they were sophomores.

 

"You're actually okay with, like, digesting food?" Heather McNamara asks, her voice quiet.

 

Duke smiles again, "yep." She pops her P and Heather isn't sure how to read into that. McNamara doesn't seem to know how to either. Hopefully it means ...

 

She should stop fucking thinking about that. It doesn't even matter if that's what it  _does_ mean. It's not like they could ever be together. Heather's got to grow up and be someone's trophy wife. That's always been the plan.

 

* * *

 

A week later she wakes up to the news that Courtney killed herself. Suicide. Yeah, right.

 

J.D.'s got his arm around Betty fucking Finn in the halls but he still stares at Heather like he thinks they're both gods. Was this supposed to be some kind of sacrifice to her?

 

She isn't sure if she wants it to be or not.

 

* * *

 

The note in her locker says he still thinks she's a god too. She burns it once she gets a chance.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't sleep much anymore. Nightmares of Kurt tugging her clothes off, grunting in her ears and of all the fucking corpses and of J.D. breaking into her house plague her. Locking the backdoor and barricading her bedroom door doesn't comfort her.

 

Nothing comforts her these days.

 

Heather McNamara brings her her homework and Heather Duke gets people to cover for her in class. It's a system that keeps J.D. the fuck away from her. She thinks maybe she'll stop it once he moves again. He's supposed to move again, she thinks. She can remember him mentioning moving around a lot, because of his dad's deconstruction business. Once he told her he's gone to, like, seven high schools.

 

As soon as he makes that eight she's safe to start going back to school.

 

...

 

Wasn't the point of all those corpses to make it so she felt safe to go to school?

 

Talk about fucking irony. Or maybe irony doesn't quite do it justice. Maybe irony doesn't even come close to covering whatever the hell this is. Not that she can think of a better word. Not that any of that even matters, actually. Nothing fucking matters. This is  _high school._ Who gives a damn that they killed five people to build the world again and now she's scared of him? Who gives a damn that Heather Chandler even exists?

 

(God, she hopes someone does.)

 

* * *

 

They still play croquet with some girl they pretend to like at Heather McNamara's estate. There's something about J.D. not playing with them that makes her uneasy. Really, this whole fucking thing makes her uneasy.

 

"Heather, it's your turn," Duke whispers, her voice soft and gentle like she needs to baby the blonde.

 

God. Even Heather Duke thinks she's fragile now. Fucking pathetic.

 

She swings her mallet at the ball hard, hoping that somehow it'll just burst. Heather just wants to crush something, to remind herself that she's powerful. She never even got to pull a trigger with J.D., he told her she was too much of a princess to murder someone. Bullshit. She thinks he just wanted to remind her which one of them had control.

 

(Her. It was always her. Wasn't it?)

Part of her wants to pull a trigger on him. Wouldn't that be satisfying? She could shoot him in the stomach, watch him try to stop the bleeding and tremble beneath her. What she wouldn't give to watch him tremble because of her ...

 

Bonk.

 

Shit.

 

Right.

 

She forgot they were just playing a stupid game of croquet for a second. _Fucking hell, Heather,_ she thinks, _get your shit together._ She can't go around thinking about murdering losers with a god complex. People would think she was some sick freak if she did that. She'd be no better than  _him._

 

What if she isn't better than him?

 

* * *

 

"You've been, uh, avoiding me, huh?" he scratches the back of his head with a gun like it's nothing. The sight makes her stomach churn.

 

What the actual fuck has she done with her life?

 

"Ah, c'mon, babe, don't look at me like that. You know I offed that bitch for you." His voice sounds so ... Convinced that he was right. That should scare her. _Why_ doesn't that scare her?

 

"You're a fucking serial killer," she hisses, her head starting to spin.

 

He laughs, flashing his teeth for a quick smile. If she hadn't heard herself she'd think she told him what a bitch Courtney was. "Actually, babe, I'm a spree killer. There's a difference. You though, uh, technically I think you could be called a serial killer now. Y'see, a spree killer kills two or more people in different locations with no time taken off except like a couple days, maybe a week. I don't usually take any time off, really, I, uh, made the exception for you since you get all queasy about dead bodies. Anyway, a serial killer just kills three people over the span of a month in the same location with the time taken off, like you went 'n' had us do with the time between killing the jocks. But, uh, that's how the FBI defines it. Ah, shit, I'm rambling. Huh. Kinda fascinating though, isn't it?"

 

Is she supposed to say yes? Does J.D. seriously think she's going to be fascinated by the technicality that doesn't make him a serial killer? Part of her wants to call him a pillowcase, part of her just wants to rip the gun out of his hands and kill him.

 

"It's not fucking fascinating,  _Jason,_ I don't give a fuck what the difference is—you're still a fucking murderer!"

 

He laughs again.

 

What the fuck.

 

"So are you, princess. Y'know, since you told me to kill them 'n' helped me. Just helping would be a charge for accessory to murder but, uh, since you told me to ..." he grins again and it's almost boyish as he fucking spins the gun in his hand, "not that I blame you. Since we're just two young gods."

 

"... What do you want me to do?"

 

"Help me kill Betty."

 

* * *

 

A fake suicide pact. It makes her sick. She feels sicker when J.D. admits he usually does this.

 

* * *

 

"We almost recruited her best friend ..." Heather McNamara mutters, her eyes blank, "she was a good person. We almost took her best friend from her. Over a fucking yearbook."

 

"Almost being the key word, Heather. We didn't know her. She's just some little loser who killed herself," Heather scoffs.

 

McNamara glares at her. It's not like she can blame the taller girl. Even she can't stand herself these days. "When did you turn into such a—such a ... A heartless _bitch,_ Heather?"

 

"Ooh. How harsh. I'm, like, gonna cry," she rolls her eyes.

 

Duke glances up, fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve. "Can you guys stop fighting? I just ... It sucks but Heather's right, we didn't know her. We talked about making her _friend_ a Heather partially because she pissed me off and then we decided not to. Big whoop."

 

"Six of our classmates are  _dead,_ Heather. God forbid I be a little freaked out," the cheerleader snaps, her eyes starting to well up, "next thing I know you'll be saying Kurt and Ram, my  _boyfriend,_ were nothing."

 

"That's not what I—"

 

"Shut up, Heather." She wishes she could just tell them the truth.

 

* * *

 

 

He skips chemistry when she skips gym so they can smoke in her car. It's almost like they're a real couple who haven't murdered six people together. That thought makes her sick. What doesn't make her sick nowadays? She's always slipping into the bathroom to vomit. How Heather Duke of her.

 

"Why did we have to ..."

 

"She knew too much 'n' was ... Unreliable. Always with a guilty conscience. That kinda shit."

 

All Betty Finn wanted was to do the right thing. Heather should want that too.

 

Does she?

 

* * *

 

Martha Dunnstock tries to kill herself three days after she starts going to school again. The fucking moron walked into the street with a note taped to her chest, inviting vehicular manslaughter.

 

Heather can't tell what she hates more; knowing that faking suicides is what inspired Martha or that J.D. is why she knows the difference between manslaughter and murder. Either way she breaks down in the shower and scrubs her skin until it bleeds. She has to get the blood off her hands. She has to ... She has to ....

 

She doesn't think she can anymore.

 

* * *

 

"We have to stop."

 

"We haven't fixed the world yet."

 

She wants to scream that they're what's wrong with the world.

 

* * *

 

The next day Heather Duke and Heather McNamara both have bags under their eyes.

 

"What bus hit you two?" she wants to bite her tongue after she says it. She's such a bitch, saying that after Martha tried to kill herself like that. After she caused that, with the years of torment and the fake suicides. J.D. should off her next.

 

"We were on the phone all night. Heather was ..." Duke mumbles.

 

"Heather was?" And then it clicks. Oh. Heather was suicidal. Of course. She's been so ... How the fuck did she not notice? Is she so caught up in herself that she can't pay attention to her best friends anymore?

 

God. She feels like such a pillowcase.

 

* * *

 

She ditches J.D. to have an impromptu sleepover with her best friends. Heather decides she can't deal with more planning and plotting and killing. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Maybe she can't do anything with him again.

 

Duke fills in all of McNamara's blanks and they tell her together everything they've bit their tongues about. All their worries and problems and grief and emptiness. And then Duke mumbles something about J.D. and how she doesn't trust him.

 

At that, Heather thinks she might laugh or cry or maybe some weird mix of the two.

 

"Me neither," she says, her voice not quite her own.

 

"Then why are you dating him?" McNamara asks, "again, I mean."

 

She shrugs.

 

For a second, she thinks that will be that and they'll go back to letting McNamara mourn. Then Duke bites back, "that's not an answer. Is he, like, abusing you or something?"

 

Abusing her. Huh. She hasn't thought about that. It's not accurate. She doesn't think this would qualify as anything but cold hearted murder. Besides, they're not even actually dating. Maybe this whole thing is toxic but ... Abusive ... Huh.

 

"... We're not really dating," she admits, "it's more complicated than that. I'm ... Whatever. Back to Heather and her mess of a life."

 

No one is allowed to pry for anything more.

 

* * *

 

He's not moving again until senior year, apparently. His dad doesn't feel like it, says he likes this house too much or some shit like that. J.D. expects some sort of hug when he tells her, like that'll make everything okay.

 

It doesn't.

 

Nothing could possibly make any of this okay ever again. How the fuck could anything make all the blood on their hands okay?

 

"C'mon, Heather ... We don't even have to kill anymore. We could just do shit like I did in the cafeteria that day," he promises. She wonders if his promises mean anything.

 

Still, how could a girl like her refuse ...

 

They go to a party and all he does is keep boys away from her and save some poor freshman from getting raped.

 

It's okay. It's okay. He meant it. She can believe him. He'll stop.

 

Or this is what he's told all the other girls.

 

* * *

 

She dreams about people she's killed; Kurt and Ram tug at her clothes and Betty Finn asks how the fuck she can live with herself.

 

* * *

 

It takes J.D. two weeks to break his promise. Two fucking weeks.

 

He's waving his gun around, talking about how they can't rebuild the world as long as scum like Ms. Fleming is in it. All that fucking hippie did was do some televised bullshit to "bond Westerburg together after all the death." Heather thinks it's shitty but not shitty enough to kill her.

 

But Betty Finn dying was okay? And Courtney too? As much as she hated Courtney, Courtney wasn't like Kurt or Ram or the fucking basketball team or David.

 

God, but who is she to decide they should die either?

 

A god, J.D. would tell her. Bullshit. It's all bullshit.

 

She's always been monotheistic.

 

"You're not fucking killing her, asshole!" she snarls, right in his face.

 

"She's glorifying suicide!" he shouts back. His gun waves too close to her and she snaps.

 

"You're the one killing people!"

 

For a second time, they're through. Whatever sick friendship they have is dead. Just like their classmates.

 

She decides it's time to start carrying around that gun he gave her.

 

* * *

 

The whole school is at a pep rally. Heather just hides out in the boiler room, smoking. Duke drove her to school so her car wasn't an option. Whatever. Smoking is shitty no matter where she does it. Who gives a damn if she kills herself faster in the boiler room instead of her car?

 

"Look what we've got here," an all too familiar voice whistles. "Did ya come to watch me bomb this place or just to smoke?"

 

Bomb this place? He's got to be shitting her.

 

"You're a fucking psycho," she tells him, glancing nervously at the equipment he's brought.

 

J.D. shrugs, "must be genetic. I already set up the, uh, upstairs stuff. What's going down here's to trigger that. My dad inspired that, actually."

 

His dad, of course. She'd almost forgotten how they both have daddy issues.

 

"Anyway, you can either help me 'n' then we can roast marshmallows in the flames or you can go join your pals, Heather and Heather. Tell Heather Duke I said thanks for getting everyone to sign that petition, by the way. Well everyone but me 'n' you," he rambles, "oh, and, uh, if you're gonna go back up you oughta sign it first. Since it's actually the school's suicide note."

 

He offers her the "petition" and a fucking pen.

 

"Like hell I'm signing that thing!"

 

He smiles at that. Was he hoping she wouldn't? What the actual fuck ...

 

"So, setting this up together it is. I've already got marshmallows and graham crackers, I've just gotta grab some chocolate before we detonate but that's fine since we should be kinda far away when it goes off anyway," he tells her like this isn't fucking ridiculous, like he's just telling her they're going bowling with some friends later.

 

"I'm not helping you either, fuckhead," she tells him, pulling the gun he gave her out of her blazer. Her hands shake around the grip. As many times as she's thought about this, she's still never pulled the trigger.

 

His eyebrow shoots up, a laugh breaking out. "We both know you don't have the guts to shoot me, Heather. Just put the gun down and we can go back to rebuilding the world like we're meant to."

 

Why the hell does he think they're gods?

 

"I'm not a god, J.D. And neither are you."

 

"Are you sure about that?" he asks, not even eyeing the gun in her hands.

 

Click.

 

"I'm Jewish, asshole," she hits him across the head with it—thwack! "I'm fucking positive."

 

* * *

 

After she tells Ms. Fleming and calls the cops and everyone is evacuated, she sits down with Heather Duke and Heather McNamara outside. God, she's so tired.

 

"What bus hit you?" the redhead asks, "you look like hell."

 

"Reality hit me. J.D. tried to bomb the school," she says flatly, "good thing I never slept with him."

 

"Oh my god, Heather, are you okay?" McNamara asks, eyes wide.

 

She laughs at that. "Not even close to it. He wanted to roast fucking s'mores with me after. Do you think they'll let him in prison?"

 

Both girls are silent. Instead of answering they just stare at her, mouths ajar.

 

"... Heather, do you wanna go out sometime? I mean like ... To prom. Since my date tried to blow up the school, I mean," she asks, her face red. She's been thinking it over for awhile now and, honestly just fuck it. Who cares if she goes to a dance with her best friend?

 

"Me Heather or ... Oh. Oh, I—um, yeah, sure ... That would be nice," Duke blushes.

 

McNamara smiles, kind of, and rests her head on Heather's shoulder. "Is this the part where you tell us J.D. was your beard and you two kiss and we pretend everything's gonna be okay?" she asks, her voice hopeful.

 

Unsure, Heather is quiet for a moment. "Maybe."

 

* * *

 

She watches J.D. get arrested and talks to the police alone. When she comes back to her friends, she offers them the marshmallows and graham crackers. One of the officers had told her that he doubted they'd need them, and anyway, she looked like she needed something good.

 

Marshmallows and graham crackers aren't going to fix all the damage done, but maybe, just maybe, they're a nice start.

 

* * *

 

The Heathers have their annual summer sleepover and this time they vote yes on Veronica Sawyer. They pretend this is a new start and it's almost beautiful but not quite, at least not yet. Heather thinks it'll get there.


End file.
